Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 4) (9 page)

“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m not really the social type.” She looked at the ground as she talked.

“You don’t have to be. You just have to be yourself.”

“Who else would I be? Are you talking about that other woman again?” She began walking.

“No, no, no. There is no other woman.” He fell in step with her.

“But you said I should be her. Now you’re saying I should be myself. No offense, Officer—”

“Call me Hank.”

“No offense, Officer Hank, but you’re kinda confusing.” She headed toward the corner of the block. Hank stayed with her.

“Okay, let’s try this one more time. Are you going to be in town Sunday night?”

“Well, uh—”

“Then I’ll pick you up at six o’clock. We’re going to a small party. Where are you staying?”

She shook her head. “Officer, how about I meet you there?”

“Great. I’ll see you Sunday night at six o’clock at the bookstore. Dress casual.”

This is not happening
. Wynona couldn’t figure out how a good old country boy had outsmarted her in such a short span of time.
Either I’m having a really bad day, or I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.
She had finally shaken the officer, but now she was suddenly aware of someone following her. He wasn’t making much noise, but she could feel his presence behind her. Hank? No, her instincts were excellent, and they told her the energy was different.

It’s a shame I’ll have to stand the poor man up. He seems nice. And he’s cute as a damn button.

Wynona crossed the street and was on the sidewalk that bordered the town green—the square block of green grass, trees, and a gazebo in the center of town—so she didn’t have the benefit of a store window to stop and look at. The more she walked, the more she could feel him in her personal space. He was really crowding her now. Was he just a thoughtless fast walker? No, not with the expanse of grass where he could pass her if he wanted. He was on her heels.

She shouldn’t have worn these Jimmy Choos to walk around town in. But they were so pretty . . . Her ankle gave out again, and she stopped all of a sudden to keep from falling off her four-inch heels. The person behind her had no choice but to plow right into her. They both went down onto the grass, and the contents of her purse spilled all around her. As she began to pick her things up, she turned to see just who this idiot was.

Oh, for crying out loud. It’s a kid.
She glared at him but saw he was writhing around in pain. Abandoning the contents of her purse, she went to see if he was all right.

Lying on his back, he swayed slightly from side to side and clutched his left leg that was bent at the knee and pressed up against his chest. As she neared him, asking if he was okay, he suddenly let out a wail. His thigh dropped to the ground, and he clutched his unattached calf to his chest.

“My leg! My leg! What have you done?” he howled dramatically.

She was momentarily horrified. He’d turned to lay on his side, shielding her view so that all she saw was a tennis shoe sticking out from under his arm as he rocked and sobbed into the grass, hugging his calf like a baby doll. What should she do? Call for help? Put something on his leg to slow the bleeding?

Then she realized there was no blood. He wore baggy cargo shorts that hung over his knee, well, one knee at least, the other one was in the kid’s arms.
A prosthesis
. You can’t kid a kidder.

She marched over, clutched the tennis shoe, and pulled the leg out of his grasp. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, examining the leg. “I’ll admit you had me for a second, dude. Nice try.”

The kid was still on his back, rocking from side to side, but now he was in peals of laughter instead of fits of sorrow. She dropped the leg onto his chest with a thud and went back to her purse, where she resumed gathering the contents.

A book was in her pile of things, and she knew it wasn’t hers. She picked it up and rolled her eyes.
Everything You Always Wanted to know About Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask.
The dirty little cretin; he wanted to intimidate her.
Well, he picked the wrong girl.
She stuffed everything back into her shoulder bag while he strapped his prosthesis on.

He stood, and as she handed the book to him, she said, “Oh, you poor dear. Having to resort to a textbook for instruction. Or is it like a dirty book? Will nobody go out with you? Well, don’t you be ashamed.” As she talked, she noticed something in his hand. Something he was trying to hide.

He mumbled some inane apologies and attempted to turn while stowing the object in his hand into one of the cargo pockets.

She opened her purse, rifled around, and realized her wallet was missing. She quickly scanned the area. There were people milling about on the sidewalks, but nobody was near her. She bounded after him and grabbed his upper arm.

He looked over his shoulder just as she clamped a second hand to the base of his neck. He tried to pull away, but her long fingernails dug into the base of his scalp. He stopped, and she whirled him around to face her.

She tried to make her tone as deadly as possible, but her Southern accent surely softened it. She adjusted his collar and smoothed the front of his shirt. “What’s your name, slick?”

“Poop on you.” He tried to turn away, but she held on firmly.

“Well, Poop, if I ever see you again, I will snatch off that leg of yours and beat you with it myself.” She smiled at him as if they were having a pleasant conversation, but she could see the look in his eyes go from cocky to wary. “And then I will stuff said limb into your throat and pull it out of your ugly little belly button.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. She poked his belly, patted his cheek, and then increased her grip on his upper arm. “You’re just a two-bit hoodlum. I’m a professional. Don’t mess with me.”

The boy swallowed hard again. Her wallet, which he’d never gotten into his pocket, dropped to the ground.

“Trixie?” She heard Hank call to her from about twenty yards away and nearing. “Trixie, is this kid bothering you? What happened?”

She whispered to the boy, “Let’s let this be our little secret, shall we?” She retrieved her wallet and turned to Hank. “Well, Officer Hank, I think the poor boy was making a pass at me, bless his heart,” she covered her mouth with her hand as if she were embarrassed, “because he showed me this vile book . . . ”

Hank saw the book for the second time that day, and he reached for his handcuffs. “Hands behind your back, son.”

The kid stepped back. “What for? Carrying a book? She bumped into me.”

“No, I’m gonna arrest you for being a public menace and a stupid idiot to boot.”

“Oh no, Hank. That’s not necessary. I handled it. And he’s right. I stopped too fast and caused us to collide. I’m sure it was all an accident and a misunderstanding.”

The kid’s eyes darted from Hank to Wynona, and he nodded vigorously, gulping once again.

“I’m not letting him get away with it this time. This little punk—”

“Uh, Hank, can I talk to you for a second?” She began to walk away, but when he didn’t follow, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder and said, “Over here?”

Hank pointed to the kid. “Jimmy Dean, you move one muscle and I swear I will shoot you.” He stalked toward Wynona.

She couldn’t afford a big to-do at the police station, and she didn’t want the kid blabbing about their little scuffle, so she sweet-talked Hank into dropping the matter. By the time she was done, Jimmy Dean was the object of much pity. When Hank finally let him go, she called out after him.

“You remember that advice I gave you now, you hear?” she drawled, cupping her hand next to her big red mouth. “Always remember that, and you’ll be armed with the proper knowledge of how to treat a girl.” She waved her fingers at him. “Toodeloo.”

Jimmy Dean turned back briefly, and she made sure her hair was out of her face and her sunglasses were off so he could see the daggers in her eyes.

Mama always said . . . Good looks won’t put food on the table.

S
unday after church, Louetta, Pickle, and Martha Maye began putting away table displays in preparation for the party. Ima Jean, Charlotte, and Butterbean filled the empty tables with food. They’d made the checkout counter a wet bar and placed flowers from Lou’s garden in vases all over the store. Lou bustled about handling the occasional customer, putting her special touch on things, and ordering everybody around. She couldn’t have been happier.

“You come back tonight for the party now, you hear?” she said to every customer who came in that day.

“Mama, we’re gonna have everybody in town here if you don’t quit inviting people.”

“What’s wrong with having the whole town? Tessie deserves it.” Lou glanced toward the door, and her face hardened. “There’s one person I won’t be inviting.”

Jimmy Dean sauntered in like he owned the place. He actually had the gall to wink at Louetta.

“‘Scuse me, I have some work to do.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into her office.

About ten minutes later, Martha Maye knocked on the door and came rushing in. “Mama, I gotta call Johnny. We have a shoplifter.”

Lou put her hand over her daughter’s, which had reached for the phone. “Let me guess. Jimmy Dean?”

She pulled her hand back. “How’d you know?”

“That’s how he gets his kicks.” Lou sank into her chair.

“Then why won’t you let me call Johnny? We need to put that little punk in the pokey.”

“It’s a trick, Martha Maye. Don’t fall for it. The little cotton picker is just looking to see who he can humiliate today.” Lou told her daughter what had happened the day before, and Martha Maye slumped into a chair.